


The Hour Is Still Early, and the Day Not Gone to Waste

by AstroGirl



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Canon, friends who've become lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:02:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22806784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstroGirl/pseuds/AstroGirl
Summary: We are lovers, he thinks, watching Crowley.We are lovers.  We arelovers.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 170
Collections: Genprompt Bingo Round 17, Good Omens (Complete works)





	The Hour Is Still Early, and the Day Not Gone to Waste

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Gen Prompt Bingo, for the prompt "late at night," although I somehow ended up coming at that prompt entirely backwards. 
> 
> It may be possible to regard this as a follow-up of sorts to ["Earthly Pleasures."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22104193) although I honestly haven't quite decided whether I do or not.

Crowley sits across from him, over the remains of an excellent lunch, and talks about nothing in particular. Talks for the sheer joy of hearing his own clever words, and, Aziraphale flatters himself, the joy of Aziraphale's own pleasure in listening.

It's a familiar enough experience, but today... Today other words are at the front of Aziraphale's mind, twining themselves over and under and around Crowley's, repeating again and again like a prayer of gratitude, or praise.

 _We are lovers_ , he thinks, watching Crowley. _We are lovers. We are_ lovers _._

He wonders, vaguely, when this state of being will become familiar enough to him that his constant wonder at it will stop. Part of him loves the thought of it, the part that dares, in odd, startling moments, to imagine the two of them a hundred years from now, a thousand, six thousand, still together. Still _this_. Still lovers.

But the rest of him thinks, _not yet_. He wants to revel in this newness, in the shocking delight of it all, for as long as he possibly can. Fortunately for him, new things have always remained new to him for longer than he expects, a human generation or so at least. The few weeks they have been lovers – Aziraphale savors the word again, rolls it slowly around in his mind – are nothing in the scale of his existence. A century from now, he still might feel pleasantly surprised to remember the fact of it, might still be savoring the word the way he is today.

Across the table, Crowley continues to speak. Something about cats, something about city rubbish collection, a delicious torrent of enthusiastic frivolity. Crowley's mouth puckers, grins, takes on the expressions of people and animals in his story. His hands sweep and flutter around him. He nearly knocks over a wineglass, miracles it upright, and continues on without a pause, never looking away from Aziraphale's face.

Aziraphale listens to him, listens to every word. But he is thinking, also, about Crowley's mouth, Crowley's hands. Crowley's mouth on his. Crowley's hands on him, everywhere.

Crowley above him, naked, his wings spread, his back arched. Crowley beneath him, his golden eyes hazed over with love and pleasure, his mouth parted in wonder, all sarcasm and cynicism banished – not for good, perish the thought, but for a moment – just for him. Crowley's mouth shaping the sounds he makes when he comes, the drawn-out aaaaaahs, the soft, gentle cries. Crowley touching him like he is something precious, something cherished, something that brings him joy.

Aziraphale has come to love the physical act, the intimacy of touch, the sensual pleasure of orgasm like the first bite of ripe berries bursting on the tongue. The sheer, earthy carnality of sex, which feels thrillingly transgressive to him and perhaps always will. The way it feels like a declaration, every time: We choose this. We choose the Earth, choose the flesh, choose each other. _Our own side._

Aziraphale is very old. He moves slowly, decides slowly, wants slowly. He is enduring. He is patient.

He is _tired_ of being patient. 

He wants Crowley's hands. Wants his mouth, the mouth that once whispered a temptation and a promise and a future into Eve's ear. He wants that future, that temptation, that promise for himself.

"So," Crowley says, resting his quicksilver hands, for a moment, on the table and giving Aziraphale a smile that makes something human skip and leap inside his chest. "Dessert?"

Dear Crowley. Always offering him sweetness.

Aziraphale beams at him. He feels filled with love, replete with it. More love than he imagined possible for anyone other than the Almighty Herself to hold inside at once. 

He does not need dessert. 

He reaches out and takes his lover's – his _lover's_ – hand. He does not want to wait for tonight, for late hours and the cover of darkness. He does not want to be patient. He wants Crowley now. Wants to make love to him by an open window, with sunlight dappling his skin and painting fiery highlights in his hair. Let the world see. Let them all know.

"No," he says. He gives Crowley a particular look, the one Crowley calls his "bedroom eyes," the one that always brings a light to Crowley's own eyes in a way that even dark glasses cannot conceal. "Let's go home." 

Atop the table, the demon's fingers entwine with his, and his answering smile is better – utterly, ineffably better – than all the brightnesses of Heaven.

**

When the night falls, it finds them still wrapped in each other's arms. As does the dawn. As do many, many dawns to come.

And Aziraphale never stops thinking, with grateful surprise: _He is my love. He is my lover. He is my love._


End file.
